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Tuesday, October 21, 2014

I'm raising the next Pete Seeger, or Woody Guthrie. My son wrote a poem for his history class which was published in the school newsletter (in a grossly bastardized version, he was quick to point out). I need to get this kid a banjo.

Working

I awake to a dark room,
crammed with bodies.
I make my way to the door,
and leave for work.

Working for hours
Working for life
Working for a tyrant

Every day I break my back
with the others.
We give everything we have,
sweat, tears, and blood.

Working for hours
Working for life
Working for a tyrant

I carry on day to day.
I do not know
what keeps me going like this.
Maybe it's hope...